Crescent City

mila: Imagine the height of a two-story house. Now, with that picture in mind, there is a house that sits on a pile of bricks and poles that high above ground. This house is on my street. Right across the street actually. There are no means of getting into said house and a lot of it is boarded up. Obviously no one lives there. I don’t know why it even exists. There’s a story behind it, everything around here does. For some reason, I don’t really want to know its history. There’s a mystery about it and I think I’d rather keep it that way…

Right next door is Parkway, a popular po-boy tavern. My upstairs neighbors, who are the loudest girls in America, they work there. I go in and they always hook it up. Well, usually. Okay, not really, but I got a free loaf of bread and a free drink with my po-boy once… I had a hard time saying po-boy for a while… I felt like a poser, like since I don’t really use that word back in L.A in reference to sandwiches then I shouldn’t use it at all. It’s like when people call soft drinks either soda or pop. You have to grow up saying it or else you sound kind of lame. I certainly have over-analyzed the issue, and came to terms with my problem. I now say po-boy… Sometimes… Hardly. Back to my neighbors. I live on a compound. Automatically this idea should pop up in one’s mind about what a compound should be or look like. I picture a grassy knoll with several log cabin-style homes strewn about. But that’s not where I live. Basically, there’s this guy, who I’ve never met, he owns a lot of property and so he broke down all the fences so that everyone could share a communal yard. Also on the compound is a community center, which is referred to as the temple. Supposedly everyone on this compound is a Buddhist. Awesome. Doesn’t make a lot of sense though cause most of them are arrogant in their own way. That also doesn’t make sense. Let’s brief: we were planning a goodbye party to be held on a Sat. night, went around and told people about it- kind of “okaying” with the Buddhists. Most were cool about it and this one particular guy was like, “Well, how many people?”
-“I don’t know, like 20-30?”
-“How late?”
-“I don’t know, like 1 a.m?”
-“Wow, that’s kinda late.”
-“Um, midnight?”
Anyhow, this guy was just annoying. So the party comes into fruition and all the compounders encircle the fire pit, yes, we have a fire pit, it’s next to the stage, yes, there’s a stage in the yard. Anyhow, they just sit there and judge us all and don’t mingle. Oh well. That’s not even a good story.

Now that’s just the compounders. Overall, I love every other neighbor here. I love my black neighbors. Yes, I’m racist. Oh well, I have a grip on reality. Everyone sits on their porch and always says hi, how are you, how you doin’, good morning, good afternoon, good evening followed with some term of endearment. At first I didn’t understand why everyone called me baby or honey, and I used to avoid eye contact- so New York of me, which is weird cause I’m from L.A, which in that case is the same deal. No stranger says hi to one another in either of those cities and if they did then they’re automatically a weirdo. Anyhow, greeting just anyone on the street has become one of my favorite things to do. (Especially when you’re scared of a certain area of the neighborhood, if you just wave, the tension is cut in a second and it’s all good.) The South is great for that reason alone… You get a sense of community and belonging. That makes me happy.

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